One Man's Rebellion
by Hahukum Konn
Summary: Plutarch Heavensbee, Head Gamemaker. Plutarch Heavensbee, Head of a rebellion.
1. Chapter 1

**One Man's Rebellion  
**Chapter 1

Disclaimer: This work of fan-fiction is not intended for personal profit. All characters utilized herein which are not creations of myself belong to Suzanne Collins.

* * *

I'm Plutarch Heavensbee, and by rights many of the people of Panem should despise me; hell, they probably _do_.

I'm a Gamemaker, after all. But I'm also a double agent. I'm one of the leaders of the rebellion we've been putting together slowly and painstakingly.

Let me tell you how it got started.

Obviously, I'm Capitol-born. Got to be, to get the cushiest jobs and the best of everything Panem has. I went to the best schools. Had the best clothes. Anything I wanted (well, with some exceptions) I got.

And of course I watched the Hunger Games. I even bet on the tributes. I sponsored one or two. It's a diseased system, but an effective one. If you don't think too hard about the tributes except as exciting figures on the screen, it's even better than any computer game invented.

How I got started in my current ostensible profession goes back to an English class in my last year of school.

Topic: _"Discuss a unique method of increasing the attractiveness of the Hunger Games."_

Well, that's when the idea of being a Gamemaker seized me and wouldn't let me go. What would _I_ do if I were Gamemaker?

I'd put the Games in outer space!

Enthralled with the idea, I wrote it all up and turned it in. Little did I know how much they liked my fanciful idea until the week after when Seneca Crane, one of the Gamemakers, walked into my classroom.

Well, he loved it and said I had a bright mind. Shook my hand in front of the class and slipped me a card with his particulars on it. I was a minor celebrity for a while after that, and hard as it may be to believe now, I actually got a few girls out of it. Some boys, too. We experimented a lot.

To be a Gamemaker, you needed a degree in something that showed you were creative. So I picked Literature and History as a double major when I went to college. You would normally think history has little to recommend it as grounding for a Gamemaker, but an eccentric History of Science professor I had would regale me with stories, stories about the wars between the old nations from back when Panem was North America. I would sit, enthralled as he regaled me with stories of such exotic things as high-flying planes, military satellites, cell disintegrators, drones, even biological weapons with expiration dates.

But the same kind of equipment and machinery of war could be used for Hunger Games, too, and the concept of strategy and tactics lends itself well to seeing how tributes organize themselves into alliances and which ones will succeed or fail. In general, though, the Districts are so far behind technologically we have simply mothballed or destroyed much of the expensive equipment that can no longer be used. So we use guns, muttations and hovercrafts to keep them in line.

The Capitol, obviously, is kept in line by that wonderful old phrase, that phrase from Latin, a language far older than the English we speak: '_Panem et Circenses_'. Bread and Circuses. The Capitol never wants for food or drink. And they certainly get their circuses every year, thanks mostly to the Hunger Games.

I kept in touch with Seneca Crane occasionally as I went through my academics. It went to my head, really. I have no idea why he indulged my occasional videophone calls, but this system of grooming new Gamemakers has its advantages for the Capitol.

It's a lot harder to resign your job if you feel personally indebted to someone helping you get one of the most prestigious jobs in our society.

Still, because my connection to Crane wasn't widely known, I had to attend mandatory career counseling sessions in my last year of college. The Capitol has lots of jobs, but the ones open to me with a combined History and Lit degree were either being some dusty old librarian maintaining historical archives on paper (which I later found out really meant carefully censoring them) or an English teacher.

I barely restrained myself from laughing out loud. As if! I'd had enough of school when I was a teenager to last me a lifetime and libraries and archives didn't excite me. In retrospect, though… well, the road not taken and all that.

The day I graduated, I put the videophone call through to Crane's office. He appeared on the screen, and I said in restrained pride, "Sir, I graduated."

He nodded. "Good to hear! Outer space Hunger Games, am I right, sonny?"

That little bit of folksy humor disarmed me. I barked a laugh, then blushed at that indiscretion. Of _course_ he remembered me and wanted me for the job; otherwise he'd have had my videophone calls blocked a long time ago.

As soon as I got started out, I let my ego get the better of me. I wanted to make better Games. Ever more entertaining Games. We couldn't have bored Capitol citizens demanding something that cost even more than just better Games, now could we?

Crane gave me the job of Assistant Gamemaker that day. The way it worked, there was the Head Gamemaker, the Gamemaker judging committee, and the Assistants. We Assistants did all the scut work – scouting out sites, arranging for construction of the arenas, prepping the drawing balls for the Reapings, all that.

For the first few years, it was all right. The tributes were just part of an exciting show I got to see up front – up close and personal. I'd see a particular landscaping or vegetation choice on the screen and I'd pat myself on the back and say, "I did that. I added that little extra hitch for the Games."

But then I became a full Gamemaker.

And I had to start looking those kids in the eye as they ran through their routines for us to issue preliminary judgement numbers from zero to twelve so the sponsor feeding frenzy could start.

I'd see them again on the screen and I'd see them die.

And that's when my rebellion started. When the scales fell from my eyes and I realized just how unnatural our society has become.

I rebelled in what you might think is probably the stupidest way imaginable, especially for a Capitol citizen with access to all our fancy medical gadgetry. I quit going to all the rejuvenation clinics and I quit drinking that cocktail that lets you overindulge at parties without it all going straight to your gut.

Laughable, isn't it? Gamemaker Plutarch Heavensbee rebelled by gaining weight. Even I have to chuckle ironically.

But you know, given how obsessed – almost _diseasedly_ obsessed – Capitol citizens are about maintaining their vanity and their looks and their special surgical procedures and the disgustingly revolting things they do to themselves to stay as thin and young as possible, yeah, it's rebellion.

Rebellion in the form of pushing 250 pounds when that Caesar Flickerman fella probably has what should be my next heart attack if he goes over 180 on a bad day. Funnily enough, I haven't had one yet. I wonder if my doctor slips me a mickey when I'm not looking.

Salvation came – or what I thought might be it – after something like twenty years. Sometimes it feels even longer than that. My entire adult life has revolved around watching these Games come and go.

But the truth of a rebellion is that if you look hard enough, someone else out there is thinking the same thing you are.

* * *

Author Note: Modified to be more Mockingjay-compliant.


	2. Chapter 2

**One Man's Rebellion  
**Chapter 2

Disclaimer: This work of fan-fiction is not intended for personal profit. All characters utilized herein which are not creations of myself belong to Suzanne Collins.

* * *

My first contact was made around the sixty-third Hunger Games. I still remember how it got started, all those years ago.

/\/\

I've been asked to a routine meeting with the Head Gamemaker. It's about a month before the Reapings are due to start, and we're already gearing up for that inevitable day.

As I walk into his office, I notice that Seneca Crane _looks_ old. Oh, I know he _is_ old, but for the first time in many years, I catch what seem to be fine wrinkles around his eyes and a slight flatness to his hair, showing he hasn't been thirty years old for a long time.

He looks at me fondly as he rises and shakes my hand. "Plutarch! Pleased to see you. Grab a seat. Busy days now with all the trains being prepared for the tributes in a month, I imagine."

There's something just the least bit forced about his smile, which puzzles me.

I nod and say, "Yes, everything's on schedule. I have the reports here if you want them—"

Even as I reach into my jacket pocket to pull out the datadisc, Crane waves me off and gestures me to the bar. I accept a fine red wine, and we make a brief toast. "To another successful Games," he says.

I respond, "And may the odds ever be on _our_ side."

We seat ourselves away from his desk. He's got these new hover-chairs, based on the same principle as the hovercars. We clink glasses and drink.

After I set my glass down on the table next to me, Seneca Crane stares at me for what seems to be a long time. Then he looks me up and down, evaluating me, judging me. He's even wearing the same expression he has when a particularly memorable tribute has impressed him.

Seneca seems to come to a decision. "Walk with me for a bit, Plutarch. I've been hearing you want to take off some of the pounds the old-fashioned way."

I lift my eyebrows, but see nothing too unusual in the request. We step into the elevator, then exit out onto street level. We make desultory small talk as I realize we're headed towards a small park near the Hunger Games Headquarters.

We seat ourselves beneath a leafy tree on a bench which faces away from the road. The greenery is carefully designed to mute the noise of pedestrians and hovercars.

Seneca Crane leans in toward me. He seems unusually nervous. I begin to wonder, and my pulse races as I contemplate what might come next.

Still, the first question seems a little odd. "Plutarch, have you ever wondered sometimes why I've been Head Gamemaker for so long?"

I shake my head. "Sir, I've always thought it was because you love organizing them, making sure they run smoothly – especially at Quarter Quells – and giving the sponsors and our audience a good show."

Crane sighs. "At first, Plutarch. But lately, I have come to wonder."

"Wonder what?" _Oh please don't let this be a trap_. I nervously begin looking for the quickest way out should President Snow's hand-picked Peacekeepers descend upon us.

I'm not imagining things. Seneca Crane's hands are shaking a bit. "About the changes some, ah, sponsors want made to the Games. I've been concerned that another Head Gamemaker might steer things differently than I would."

I nod, although I'm not sure where his rambling is going.

He continues. "The more I deal with you, though, the more I see a man who would carry on as I have. I'm thinking you should start getting ready to be the next Head."

I'm surprised. It's a bittersweet reward to know I have the man's blessing to begin maneuvering to be the next Head Gamemaker. I could do so much more from that position – I'd not only have advance information about the Games themselves as I do now, but I'd even be able to influence them in subtle ways; rig the odds— my dizzy thoughts come to an abrupt halt as I realize none of this is any good if my personal rebellion stays that way.

I decide to push back. "I'm grateful for your consideration, but I think I need a few more years of being where I am; you're not retiring any time soon, I hope?" I force a chuckle.

Crane lets out a weak laugh. "Keep an old man from crowning off his years of service to our esteemed President? You're heartless, you know that?"

I get even bolder. My senses are tingling. Now's the time. In a low voice, I reply, "And how much esteem _do_ you hold for our President, sir?"

There. I've openly spoken treason into the ears of the Head Gamemaker. Will he denounce me and then retire, secure in the knowledge that President Snow will shower wealth and security upon him?

Or will he risk his comfortable life, staving off death for as long as it takes to help me? Because I need his help. A burden shared is a burden eased.

Crane leans forward. We're seated side by side on the bench, and our knees are almost touching as he speaks. I've leaned over to catch his words.

His voice trembles with excitement and fear. "To think you're the first! Plutarch, we need to—"

The leaves of the tree behind me rustle in a breeze, startling both of us.

Crane claps me on the shoulder and in a louder voice says, "Well, one day you'll be Head. My word on it. Let's get back to work now. Meet you for dinner this weekend, all right?"

We shake hands and as we walk back, a new purpose in our steps, it still seems so unbelievable to me that a key man in the Capitol is ready to join in, until now, my purely imaginary crusade. I wonder what he will say to me at that dinner.

Back at my office, it sinks in that Seneca Crane has finally quit giving a damn about whether the government wants him alive or not. It makes me wonder how many of my fellow Gamemakers think the same way, but would rather simply keep our silence and retire quietly.

Is this what we Gamemakers have come to? Welcoming death, but too cowardly to take the quick way out?

It's not even close to illegal. You just go to a doctor, get a certificate saying you're mentally healthy, and you can go into what's basically a brain-destruction chamber that short-circuits all your neurons immediately. Somehow, though, no Gamemaker has ever committed suicide that way. Maybe we all unconsciously realize how dangerous it might look if people found out Gamemakers were less than enthusiastic about their jobs.

It gives me new perspective on why the retirees stay very quiet, draw their pensions, and say little to anyone the rest of their lives.

Hopefully Seneca Crane and I can make a difference, and one day show the world that not all Gamemakers are timid.

* * *

Author Note:

I thought it would be logical for people "at the top" to have their doubts and begin gathering together, then spreading out to make their contacts. :) Revised to put some of the material into the next chapter and help tighten the drama a bit.


	3. Chapter 3

**One Man's Rebellion  
**Chapter 3

Disclaimer: This work of fan-fiction is not intended for personal profit. All characters utilized herein which are not creations of myself belong to Suzanne Collins.

* * *

I've had to rush off to take care of some things at the Arena. A high-speed train ride gets me there in three hours. It seems a couple of my fellow Gamemakers and their Assistants got into a dispute over whether to put pods filled with poison butterflies underneath some of the trees in the forest, or to use semi-sentient lizard/alligator hybrids at the bottom of the large lake. Seneca is too busy to be bothered, so I have been sent in his place.

We have already blown through most of the budget for this Arena, and what's left is only good for one pod or pod-equivalent of muttations. I decide to consider the arena's layout, and tell the others to go up to the Cornucopia and wait for me.

I go underneath the arena, huffing and puffing my way through one of the Launch Rooms, down the corridor, and up the cylindrical platform where a tribute will wait for the opening signal. I walk to the Cornucopia, which is just being built, and cast my eyes across the Arena. The lake's off to the east, and the large forest to the west. There's grasslands in the middle, an excellent flat and straight run if we want to send some wolves in. They liked that in the fifty-ninth Games, and it's worth doing it again for the pizzazz factor.

_Okay, what would a tribute do?_ Would he or she try to be near the lake, under cover of the bushes scattered around it, to get fresh water, or would the tribute try to get food – berries and roots and such – in the forest?

The Careers have been locking up the games for a while and it stands to reason they'd probably either stay by the Cornucopia or move to the lake. Both are more easily defensible than trying to make camp in the forest.

I decide. Snapping my fingers, I bellow, "I've got it! Gather around, okay?"

Everybody gathers around me and I say, "All right. It's settled. Put the lizard-gators in the lake and key them to wake up when we're ready for some action after the first few nights. We'll use the butterflies next time. Assistants, get moving now! Gamemakers, you're with me."

The Assistants scurry off, while I accompany Gamemakers Falco Dannon and Sylvia Venter back to the train, and the irony stays with me that I've just condemned several Career tributes even as I have my eye on the surprise, the drama of it all. Gamemaker, tribute, stylist… we're all in the service of a greater aim: keeping the Capitol entertained. That's what I've got to keep my eye on.

But damn it, I'm still helping twenty-three kids die. It's just that I've changed the order in which that'll happen.

/\/\

The formal invitation to a working supper from Seneca Crane is in my "to do" box when I get back from that train ride to the Arena. I tell Fulvia, my assistant, that I'm taking the rest of the day off. She nods and pages my hovercar to pick me up outside the building.

It's things like that, being able to anticipate me when needed, that makes her a capable and excellent assistant. She doesn't complain and she has good ideas of her own. A little weak in the flair and drama department, but during the Games when we Gamemakers are directing the overall flow of things, keeping the Capitol audience entertained, she has an eye for how to intercut the montages of the tributes for maximum impact. The sponsors always love it when the slash-and-hack action sequences get sandwiched with some drama in the middle, and she's good at finding those for the end-of-day summaries when the tributes sleep at night (or I should say, try to).

I dress in my best outfit, noticing the Gamemaker robes I'll have to wear in about a month as we begin evaluating the tributes. I don't much want to look at them right now and slam the closet door shut.

Armed with the encoded chip authorizing me to be present, I make sure my own identification is on me as I leave my palatial apartment, which takes up half of the floor and is near the top of the building. I have yet to see who else lives in this building.

That kind of isolation is not unusual. My hours of work change over the year, and given how technologically advanced we are, you can have everything you want brought to your residence if you don't want to step out.

I get to my personal hovercar, start it up, and set the guidance computer to take me automatically to the Head Gamemaker's mansion.

Seneca Crane's mansion is secluded from view. It's surrounded by some very interesting specimens of genetically engineered plants. As I lower the window to place my authenticator chip in the reader at eye level, I notice the vines creep towards my car. The reader then requests my identification. Only after it beeps reassuringly, letting the gate swing open, do the vines retract back into the bushes.

A part of me morbidly wonders if anyone's car has ever been trapped by those vines.

I manually take over and guide the car around a large fountain, suffused by soft lights that change slowly through several light colors of the spectrum. This makes the water change from a slight red to a teal blue, and it's beginning to change to a light green when I tear my eyes away and deactivate my car.

I walk up to the mansion itself, which is very much like some old reproductions I saw of a _domus_, a house that was popular many centuries, if not millennia, ago. I'm not sure how intentional it was, but the effect is pleasing.

The entryway to the house is a long, tall hallway which is evenly lit. Gates at the end which open into the house proper provide another layer of security.

I signal at the entry panel midway down the entrance hallway, and Seneca's face appears on the visiplate a second later. He smiles, but it's a little strained. "Plutarch! Excellent. I'll come and escort you through the residence."

Soon, Seneca arrives, waving his own authenticator chip over a panel set into the wall to open the gates for me. He leads me to a beautifully arranged garden at the center of his residence. It's rectangular and open to the summer sky. The plants seem tamer and don't radiate danger, not like the vines and the shivering bushes surrounding this place.

We sit at a small table in the exact center of the garden. Two walkways cross at this point and the area itself is large enough to accommodate six people seated around a table easily twice the size. But tonight it's me and him.

Seneca, seated at right angles to me, regards me with another strained smile. He says, "I've tried to make sure the Avox servants won't be around much. I've created the impression this is a high-level working supper to discuss the next ten years of Hunger Games, as well as the Quarter Quell, which is just over a decade away as well, as you know."

I nod. It seems reasonable to at least sketch them out, because the worst thing that can happen is not having several alternative possibilities at hand should a plan for an Arena be rejected. On the other hand, this is really something that should be discussed after the Games with all of the Gamemakers.

Well, something plausible is needed to explain why I'm here and more Games is as good an excuse as any. Especially since the Quarter Quell will demand more of us than usual.

The food is quickly brought out, as well as a selection of wines. I try not to look too hard at the Avoxes that bring them out, because they're another reminder of the sewers under our shining bright Capitol which is ever so benevolent to its people.

We're alone again. I'm trusting that Seneca also had us set out here to avoid any surveillance equipment. It's too late to check _under_ the table, but I wave quickly to get his attention as he's pouring the white wine for each of us. At his raised eyebrows, I point at the table, then my ear.

He seems to understand and leans over, speaking softly. "I ordered this table today and brought it here myself. It hasn't been out of my sight since then."

I breathe a sigh of relief.

He lifts his glass. "To… what, Plutarch?"

I consider, then lift mine and touch it to his. "To the odds being in _our_ favor."

Seneca chuckles ruefully. "We're going to need that to be true, Plutarch. We're just two men. That's all." He takes a deep breath and continues. "I've… I've harbored my doubts, you know. For a long time, Plutarch.

"It started with the second Quarter Quell. None of you were there; the President demanded a meeting only with me. He was so enraged when that man, Abernathy I think, used the Arena's forcefield against his opponent. It made us look incompetent, he yelled. He wanted to have an 'accident' arranged during the Victory Tour. I only barely managed to hold him off."

I whistle. I had just been starting out, if memory served, and hadn't heard a damned thing. I say, "I'm not so sure any one thing did it for me. It was… well, it was gradual. But I think it really just hit me when I had to start looking those tributes in the eye when we did judging sessions – they're just kids, damn it!"

"They are. And that brings me to something else you need to know, Plutarch."

A sudden feeling of foreboding hits my stomach. I stuff the piece of steak on my fork into my mouth and try to chew, gulping down some wine to wet my mouth.

I swallow with some difficulty and say, "What is it?"

Seneca fiddles with his napkin. He can't quite look me in the eye.

_This is going to be bad._

Finally he puts his napkin down and folds his hands on his lap. He says, "President Snow has always been very eager to take power and hang onto it with every fiber of his being. There have been rumors in recent years that some of his rivals in the Senate have met with… untimely ends. But it's getting worse than that, Plutarch."

I laugh bitterly. "How can it be any worse than a President who's assassinating people he doesn't like? It's news to me, but it doesn't surprise me as much as it should."

"There's also blackmail."

Confused, I say, "But… sir, you're—"

He waves his hand at me. "Forget the 'sir' for tonight, Plutarch. Call me Seneca."

He continues, a haunted look in his eyes. "President Snow is starting to use tributes and victors as a double-edged sword. He selects the youngest and most attractive for… certain activities, you might say."

My fork clatters to the plate. I put my head in my hand, staring at Seneca Crane. I point at him. "Do you mean to tell me that after we've done putting these kids through hell and back, the President's using their _bodies_? Damn it, if it wasn't just me and you, I swear—"

I'm too angry to continue.

Seneca tries to calm me, putting his hand on my arm gently. "Plutarch, the reason I am telling you this is because I strongly suspect the President wants something to hold over me. You remember Enobaria, the victor of the previous Games?"

I nod.

"As you probably noticed, she is fairly attractive. President Snow especially asked me if I wanted to be the first to have her before he began auctioning her off – in secret, of course – to other wealthy men in the Capitol. I'm widowed; my wife has been dead for four years now. The President is not wrong in assuming an old man like me might want one last fling. But I couldn't bring myself to take advantage of her like that. If I had, not only would I have dishonored the memory of my wife, I would have been right where President Snow wanted me."

I spot the conclusion. "He would have threatened to reveal the 'scandal' of you being 'inappropriate' with a victor, wouldn't he? And in exchange he would have more control over you, just in case you ever got political ambitions. And he controls her too. But why you in particular? Why is he so insecure that you're a threat to him because of what one tribute did almost fifteen years ago?"

Seneca takes a bite of his own steak, washes it down with wine, and shakes his head somberly. "I wish I knew, Plutarch. I really do. I did not take my job to try and take _his_. Who would? The Senate is largely a toothless body, but it serves its function of rubberstamping any decisions he makes, and provides a wonderful little hotbed of back-stabbing, politics, intrigue, and is, if you consider it in that light, a tamer version of the Hunger Games for grown adults. A distraction, if you will, for bored Capitol citizens with too much of a fascination for risk – dangerous risks."

I breathe out heavily and sit up straight. As I pick up my knife and fork, I summarize. "Okay. Let me get this all straight in my head. President Snow wants money and power. He can get it by prostituting the victors – and maybe even some of the tributes – to wealthy people in the Capitol. In return, he has the ability to blackmail them should it ever become public what it is they're doing. You're also pretty sure he has been in some way killing his enemies should they become too troublesome for him.

"All this is to consolidate his power and stay President for many years, probably even until he dies."

Seneca nods. "I'd say the same."

We say no more to each other as we finish our meals before they get too cold. The Avoxes then bring out dessert and more wine, but I'm careful about touching my wine glass. I don't need to be seen leaving this place roaring drunk.

As I sample the chocolate triple-layer cake, I say, "We need more allies, Seneca. That's got to be our next step."

"I agree. I keep thinking about that Abernathy fellow, you know. Something about him… there's just _something_."

"Even if I happen to remember that he shows up sloshed when he stays in the Capitol? Fulvia's had a few run-ins with him."

I remember one time she complained about that 'uncouth man from District Twelve', and actually uttered a few choice words too. I wonder if he has that effect on everyone.

"So get to him before he gets started."

I snort. "Tall order, but I won't let a chance go. I also think we need to really think – really, really think – about trying District Thirteen."

Now Seneca's the one who's in disbelief. "It's been destroyed. Everyone knows that!"

I smirk. Time for a history lesson. "Seneca, how sure are you about that? I was told by one of my more eccentric professors that countries have tried hiding things before and they always try so hard at it that it never really works. Maybe it _is_ real."

Seneca shakes his head. "Look, we need to move slowly and carefully. Let's get some more allies here in the Capitol first."

As I open my mouth, he says quickly, "And one more thing. I think you should start to be a little more at odds with me. It may help your chances with President Snow when you become Head Gamemaker."

My jaw snaps shut as I ponder the possibilities. Finally, I nod slowly. "Okay, we'll do it your way."

"We also need to discuss lines of authority here," points out Seneca.

"I see no issue. You're my boss. I'll do what you say to do." I shrug and finish off my dessert, then take a final sip of the wine.

I check my watch. We've been at the table for an hour and a half. I extend my hand to Seneca, who grasps it in a handshake. "I should go. But thank you. It looks like we've both got a lot to think about. How should we arrange future meetings?"

As Seneca releases my hand, he stands up. I follow suit, brushing the crumbs off my ample frame.

He purses his lips, thinking. "Nothing electronic. That can be tapped or stolen. Get some paper and a writing instrument. There was a fad just a year ago where people invited each other to parties with ridiculously written invitations. I bet you could still get all the materials. I'll do the same. Keep everything under lock and key, and use the paper to send me messages. We can exchange missives each day, or each week, when we cross each other at work."

I shrug. "That'll have to do. I can't think of anything else that would work that isn't also ridiculously complicated."

We walk back to the entry gate, and Crane bows slightly to me. "Goodbye for now, Plutarch Heavensbee."

I bow back and smile. "And goodbye for now, Seneca Crane."

I turn and leave the mansion, then go to my car and let myself out, authenticating at the exit to the roadway. I program the guidance computer to take me back home, and I sit back, my mind whirling at the things I've learned about our great Capitol.

* * *

Author Note: And here's the long-awaited Chapter three :) I'd also like to thank **SkyWriter9** for beta reading these chapters for me! :) Any and all mistakes are, however, my own.

Additionally, this version of Seneca Crane isn't an absolute bastard. That's President Snow's job. :P


	4. Chapter 4

**One Man's Rebellion  
**Chapter 4

Disclaimer: This work of fan-fiction is not intended for personal profit. All characters utilized herein which are not creations of myself belong to Suzanne Collins.

* * *

The Sixty-Third Hunger Games are about to begin.

It's Reaping Day for the districts, and all of the Gamemakers are in the Training Center's underground meeting room. There's a vast underground complex that the tributes never see when they come for training. This is just one of several rooms we Gamemakers have access to.

It's got a large television screen along one wall. We're the first to see the Reapings. They're transmitted almost-live, routed to us first. Ostensibly it's for us to get a sense of the tributes that are coming to the Capitol, but another purpose is for us to censor any untoward images before the Capitol audience gets to see them, never mind the Districts.

The room is laid out like a movie theater, so nobody's vision is obstructed. However, we have comfortable couches instead of individual seats in the Gamemaker area. The single chairs are the rear seats near the entry doors. That area's for the Assistant Gamemakers as well as other staff.

Fulvia's not here today. She's to take a confidential written message to Haymitch Abernathy that's as innocuous as I can make it. I dispatched her on the train to District Twelve, and when she looked at me a little funny, I said, "I know you don't like him, but it's a Gamemaker's prerogative. I also want you to make sure there's no problems on the train."

I've already got a glimpse of what my future life will be like: gauging trustworthiness, giving people incomplete information, pushing some boundaries and seeing what's safe and what's not.

It's a test for her and for Abernathy, and I feel somewhat guilty for manipulating her. But I need to know if she can resist the temptation to start wondering about her unusual mission and peeking at things she shouldn't peek at.

The invitation to the District Twelve mentor is just for a working dinner at a restaurant near the Training Center. If asked by anyone, I'll have to lie and say I wanted to see the laughingstock of Panem up close.

The Panem anthem swells over the speakers, and as tradition demands, we stand up as the insignia comes up on the screen.

After the words "District One Reaping" flash across the screen, we sit down. I'm next to Gamemaker Dannon. He's got a small computer with him to make notes about the various tributes. I always ask for a complete recording to be sent to me so I can watch at home and get a feel for the scores they'll get during training.

At this stage, I want to focus my attention on the tributes and not be distracted by a notepad or a computer.

The District One boy tribute is a seventeen-year-old volunteer. The girl is an eighteen-year-old and refuses to let a volunteer take her place. They seem well-dressed this year. They must be children of comparatively wealthy people who would like to add a Victor to the roster of accomplishments their children have.

Seneca Crane's a couple of seats to my right, and he doesn't raise his eyebrows. It's always somewhat debatable whether we should show that people being Reaped can insist on staying in instead of being replaced. On the one hand it encourages independent thinking against what appear to be iron-cast rules. On the other, we want the Capitol people to forget that the Districts don't really have a choice. One boy and one girl – save for the fiftieth Hunger Games – will end up in an Arena one way or another.

Seneca usually doesn't censor things like this, and it doesn't look like he'll censor this one either. The tributes from One will probably rate an eight.

The succeeding Reapings are staggered, so District Seven comes up next.

The seventeen-year-old boy seems fairly strong. He must already be working in the sawmills in that District. The girl, however, is only thirteen. Nobody volunteers. I'll rate them seven and three, respectively.

The tributes from Two are both well-muscled and have blank expressions on their faces as the Capitol escort announces them as tributes. The boy is an aggressive-looking fourteen-year-old who shoved a much taller boy out of the way to make it to the front. The Victors had a quick huddle, then pointed at him and gestured him up. The girl is eighteen, and is an eager volunteer.

Just for the hell of it, I mentally rate the boy a ten. If he can shove people heavier than him aside, he'll probably show similar skill in training.

District Three produces relatively nondescript tributes. I mentally assign them fours.

It goes on like this, with Districts Eleven and Twelve not producing anyone memorable. I do notice Haymitch Abernathy is fiddling with a piece of paper before he shoves it in his pocket and slumps on a chair while Effie Trinket gives her usual bright smiles to attract attention to herself.

Fulvia's hanging well back, almost in the doorway of the Justice Building. Good. She'll be just another Capitol flunky making sure the train runs on time.

As the image on the screen fades to black, the lights come up and Seneca stands. He says, "All right, everybody, it looks like we've got a fairly usual crop of tributes this year. I want final preparations made for the Training Center to be ready, and for the stylists and prep teams to have what they need." He turns and points to the Assistants. "I want you people in the back to help wherever you're needed. Any last-minute problems, contact a Gamemaker."

The meeting breaks up, and I find I'm anxious to meet Abernathy in person and see if I can trust him. I also wonder what Fulvia has to say about the Reapings when she sees them.

/\/\

The next day, I'm at my desk at six in the morning. The work's moved into high gear.

Even as District tributes enter the Capitol, sparking frenzies of adulation and curiosity at the train station, we Gamemakers scurry around, mediating last-minute disputes among stylists who've suddenly changed their minds and want this District instead of that District, making sure all the supplies they need are in stock at the Remake Center, double-checking that the Training Center is ready to go and doing the hundred and thirty-seven odds-and-ends that seem to come up at the last minute each year.

A newbie Assistant videophones me in a panic, swamped by anxious prep teams who're missing the hair wax for the tributes' bodies. I decide I'd better settle the matter personally, as the stuff damn well should have been ordered weeks ago.

I rush over in my hovercar, breaking all the speed limits and parking in the back of the Remake Center with a _whoosh_ of air. Before the car has even started shutdown mode, I'm barrelling through the back door, swiftly walking through the cavernous chariot stable room, and quickly taking the stairs to find out what in Panem is going on.

The prep teams have converged on Assistant Gamemaker Orchus Setala in shipping and receiving, demanding in their high-pitched voices to know what's going on.

I bellow, "What's the matter here?"

Everybody shuts up and looks at me. I bark, "Gimme the manifest, Setala."

He hands the datapad over to me with shaking hands while one of the women shoots him a dirty look, and I quickly page through it, looking for the part number for HAIR WAX, and then cross-referencing it against the delivery schedule and the locator beacon on the pallet.

A few taps of my fingers later I find out what's happened. There wasn't any more room, so it was redirected into the far corner of the downstairs stable, and I happen to know the boxes look almost identical to the ones for the special feed meal for the horses. It's Setala's first year and he's still learning the ropes. It can't have helped that he got completely flustered due to upset prep teams.

I decide to bail out the Assistant, handing him back the datapad and saying, "Setala, get downstairs and find a couple of Avoxes to help you get the pallets up here. Even better, some of you folks on the prep teams should go with him. The wax boxes are downstairs, by the chariots."

Orchus breathes a sigh of relief and wipes the sweat off his forehead. Everybody in the shipping and receiving hall scatters, off to finish getting things done.

I decide to quickly check things out in the Remake Center, nodding at other Assistant Gamemakers and quickly chatting with Dannon, who's on his way back to Gamemaker central to confirm nothing's wrong with the cameras in the Arena. I end up by the glitzy front entrance to the Remake Center, noticing a sizable crowd of anxious people has already gathered, awaiting the tributes who'll shortly enter.

I get roped into a quick interview with the Reaping announcers, as there's some curiosity as to what we think of the tributes.

I'm not allowed to say very much, but I'm an old hand at this.

The purple-haired, rainbow-eyed man says, "Gamemaker Heavensbee, what prospects do you see for the District One, Two and Four tributes this year?"

I smile and look into the camera and give a quick wink. "Well, that part's confidential but I can tell you we just might have a few surprises in store for our viewers this year."

Bait. Shark. Chomp.

The guy's voice tightens in excitement as he gushes, "So you're saying we can look forward to a real upset in the Hunger Games?"

I'm reminded of the sharks in District Four's waters with the way this guy is so eager for something to show the audience.

He's getting dangerously close to my notion of seeing how the Careers respond to the lake, so I have to throw him off. "Anyone from any District could win. That's the way the Games are, as I'm sure you know. Keep your eyes open, and keep an open mind in the days to come. Unfortunately, my time is up and I need to get moving. It was a pleasure."

His eyes flash at not being allowed any more tidbits, but his tight smile shows he knows how the audience gets played. We shake hands, bowing slightly to each other on camera, and I get back into the Remake Center, yanking my mobile phone out of my pocket to check if Fulvia has come in yet.

As it turns out, her train is just rolling in now. She'll be at the Remake Center any minute now, and I tell her to meet me in the back at my car.

It's almost like fate is letting things fall into place for me.

* * *

Author Notes: Thanks to **SkyWriter9** and **xXKillerxxCupcakeXx **for the beta work here! :)


	5. Chapter 5

**One Man's Rebellion  
**Chapter 5

Disclaimer: This work of fan-fiction is not intended for personal profit. All characters utilized herein which are not creations of myself belong to Suzanne Collins.

* * *

Fulvia's back.

We sit in my hovercar, but I don't start it up yet. She's looking at me a little strangely since I'm not driving us back to Gamemaker HQ posthaste.

I say, "Any problems with the train going there or coming back?"

She shakes her head.

"That fellow… Haymitch? He give you any trouble?"

Fulvia shakes her head. "Not really. He was barely awake when I went to see him at his house. He growled something at me, but took the message. I saw him take it out of his pocket as we got onto the train."

"Hmm," I say noncommittally. I start the hovercar up, and we're off.

Fulvia seems a little troubled. As we float over the shining Capitol buildings, she seems to be taking them in with a new intensity in her expression.

As we land on the roof of the Gamemaker building, she blurts, "I never really knew…"

I make sure the hovercar has landed safely and is entering the power-down sequence, then reply, "Yes, Fulvia?"

She shakes her head. "Nothing. It's nothing. I should get back to work now."

With that, it's back to making the Hunger Games go off without problems.

/\/\

By the late afternoon, the pressure's mostly off. The arena's explosives all check out, the Gamemaker control center's command functions are properly set up and the mentors' observation center is up and running. I go by Fulvia's office to remind her that the chariot rides are due soon, and I notice she's still watching some footage of the tributes' arrivals in the Capitol. She should be using the machine to edit the footage into a montage.

There's a frown on her face which hurriedly disappears as I knock. She says, "I apologize, sir. I already sent the montage to the news nets, but I wanted to watch one more time—"

I nod. "That's fine, but we need to get going. Chariots soon."

We take the elevator to one of the middle floors with a balcony high up enough that we can see the entire City Circle, but not so high that we can't get a good view of the crowds and the tributes. Their images will be up on the screens and we'll have our own screens, as well. We walk down the hallway and into a large conference room that has wide glass doors opening out to a large balcony. We proceed past the refreshments along one wall. Several projection screens line the other wall.

It's nice out, with a slight breeze and no clouds in the sky. The brilliant sunset will make for an interesting contrast with the lights as they come on before the chariots come out.

I can see the crowds on the street, eager to get a view of the City Circle. They're lucky; they've already been waiting several hours for the privilege of a street's-eye view of the chariots. The less-lucky ones will have to stay home and watch on their screens, or hope one of the buildings is open. They sell high-priced tickets to let people go into the actual Training Center and watch from the roof of the spire that will house the tributes.

The unofficial rule is that Gamemakers get to stand right at the balcony, while Assistants and others normally have to either stay in the large conference room behind us and watch on a screen, or stand on a bench and get a not-as-great view of the City Circle.

I nod to Seneca, pointing at Fulvia, who's still with me. He nods, and I gesture to Fulvia to stand next to me. She smiles widely and says, "Thank you! I've never had such a good view before!"

Seneca leans over and says, "Blame the good weather. And count yourself lucky; some of the Gamemakers aren't here yet."

I laugh, and survey the Circle again. The Peacekeepers are getting into position just in case the crowds get too unruly. We're facing south, with President Snow's mansion opposite us, and the Remake Center's almost directly in a straight line from us to a point maybe five minutes' hovercar ride south as well; past experience is that with the pace the horses can handle, plus all the pomp, it'll be a good half an hour from the moment the cheering starts to the time when the tributes will be in front of Snow's mansion about 100 meters away.

I can see people in buildings down the long street to the Remake center, and more lining the street. The babbling of the crowds creates a dull roar that will explode into the loudest thing in the Capitol when the tributes start out on their chariots.

An Avox hands out sunglasses which polarize depending on how strong the light is, which will make it a bit easier to see while the sun is still up. Additionally, they incorporate a heads-up display which contains the program with the tributes' names, or which can project an image of what's on the big display screen mounted atop the Gamemaker headquarters building, as well as from any of the cameras which line the parade route. Fulvia, unfortunately, doesn't get a pair as they're for Gamemakers only. There are, however, large display screens around the City Circle so she'll still be able to see close-ups of the tributes.

I can cycle through views from all the cameras with short taps against the left arm of the glasses, which out of long habit I've managed to make look like I'm just adjusting them on my face. A tap against the right arm will bring up the program with the tribute list if I need it.

Pulling up the program and projecting it on the heads-up display, I see overlaid atop President Snow's mansion the district lineup and the names of the tributes. Nobody's missing. Good.

Now for the camera just outside the Remake Center. Some people are waving signs saying things like "GO DISTRICT ONE!" or "UP WITH DISTRICT FOUR!" or "I LOVE YOU JASON!"

I quickly cross-reference with my tribute master list. Jason Schreck is the boy from District One. A picture pops up next to his name, and I can see why. He's going to break a few hearts during these Games, it seems. I clear the list as a wave of roars and cheers floats down the street as music swells over the City Circle.

_Panem et circenses_. Bread and circuses.

The circus is about to begin as I see horses pulling a chariot with the District One tributes standing tall and regally, bedecked with sparkling gemstones such as red rubies and glittering diamonds. The girl and boy are both practically nude except for some bikini-type shorts and strategic placement of jewelry over the girl's chest.

They begin grinning and waving, and I can hear a slight rise in the crowd's yelling and screaming. The large screens in the City Circle are now showing a close-up view of the tributes in their chariot, and the volume of the crowd in the City Circle increases even more.

Fulvia's nodding to herself, clearly impressed with the camera work.

The screens will start to intercut between the tributes as my glasses' heads-up display shows the District Two chariot now leaving the Remake Center; this way, I can keep my eye on both who the TV crews are spending most of their time on, as well as the first camera showing the tributes entering the street on their chariots.

District Two's boy is wearing board shorts and the girl, a skirt and halter top. Both are grey in color, and match their bodies, which have been painted a slate grey in recognition of their official purpose as a stone-quarrying district. This shows their musculature to good effect.

I can see some girls blowing kisses, throwing flowers and yelling "Caius!" as the District Two chariot begins making its way down the street. The District Twos also wave, but their expressions remain stolid, with maybe the slightest of smiles on the girl's face at the adulation they face.

It's always amazing how no matter who the tributes are, they always get _some_ cheers, flowers and applause. Reflecting back on my youth, though the Hunger Games were a little different back then, I think it's because they're the physical personification of the excitement and glamor of the Games, and the viewers in the Capitol have yet to decide who they'll root for.

District Three's tributes are dressed interestingly this year; their stylist seems to have realized that circuit boards aren't as attractive as being painted in a bright shiny aluminum color and wearing crowns, bracelets and belts of blinking lights. The tributes look a little daunted by the crowds and lights.

I nearly burst out laughing at District Four's entrance, and I look to my right to see Dannon putting his hand over his mouth as he attempts to make it look like a coughing fit. We're on television too, although they never intercut to show us on the large screens on the tribute entry route. It's for the viewers at home, who like seeing the Gamemakers watching over everything.

Whoever Four's stylist is, he or she seems to have decided to dress the tributes up as dolphins. They are wearing matching skin-tight outfits, complete with headpieces. The close-up from the camera shows the boy's jaw clenching as he tries to hide his displeasure, and the girl's doing a passable job of salvaging the situation by waving energetically and pushing her chest out a bit.

District Five's tributes almost blind the camera (and me) as they trot out amid the gathering twilight, their full-body outfits shimmering and reflecting kaleidoscopically, as though they embodied the stained glass their district manufactures for decorations here in the Capitol. The crowd goes wild as the tributes wave, catching the light and making their arms twinkle brilliantly.

I'm checking some of the other cameras now, and I see District One's tributes have gone about half-way to the City Circle. The screens around the Circle keep switching from chariot to chariot, lingering only a little longer on District Two compared to the others.

Back to the Remake Center camera, and the District Six chariot comes out, provoking a snicker from me that I hastily convert to a sneeze. They're dressed in all-white unitards with a red cross on their backs. They're wearing white caps which look rather smart, but the strangeness of their outfits makes me wonder what the stylist thought biomedical research was (or, for that matter, chemistry, which they also do a lot of).

I groan inside as District Seven's tributes, dressed _again_ as actual trees, come out. They don't look that happy, and to be honest I can hardly blame them. Even the cheering of the crowds seems a little muted, and I catch glimpses from the camera of one or two people openly laughing. The stylist has been doing this job for way too long. When I become Head Gamemaker, I'm going to fire that person to save District Seven the humiliation, if I do nothing else for these people.

District Eight's chariot bursts out, and it's almost night-time now, with brilliant streetlights lighting up all over the Capitol and letting Districts One and Five's outfits twinkle like thousands of points of light, while District Three's aluminum-coated bodies shine uniformly and brilliantly as they slowly move along the road.

Fulvia's hands clench on the balcony railing and I look to my left, seeing her look somewhat disgusted at the image on the large screens. Wondering why, I check District Eight's outfit and groan mentally. They're dressed in tattered textiles that have been patched together from who knows how many different fabrics. They look terrible, to be honest.

The crowd, upon seeing District Eight's chariot, seems distracted by the television screens, as I see the people near the Remake Center craning their necks to see them. That said, there are a quite a few people still valiantly cheering.

District Nine's a relief. The boy is dressed smartly in a green shirt and tight pants, with a hood that's thrown back so people can see his face. His girl district partner is dressed in a full-length flowing dress. I vaguely remember an old legend about a hunter and his girlfriend, which must be where the stylist got that from, which makes sense since the people in District Nine do a lot of the hunting and trapping to bring in specialty pelts for coats and rugs. I notice from the cameras that quite a few boys seem to like the girl; I make a mental note to watch in case she gets a lot of sponsors, since we Gamemakers have to satisfy the audience.

I _think_ the District Ten tributes are supposed to represent the livestock they tend for our meat, but the brown outfits they wear with irregular white spots make them look a bit diseased instead. The horns on their heads don't help much, but they suck it up and stand tall and garner some cheers because of it.

District Eleven. What in the _world_ was the stylist _thinking _when they considered agriculture? The girl – I think, anyway – is dressed like a giant apple, and the boy – again, I think – is supposed to be an orange. Luckily, the crowd doesn't ignore them as much as they did District Eight.

And finally, District Twelve. No imagination for that District; it's another year of them being painted coal-black and wearing hard hats, only this year they're completely nude. At least the stylists covered _every_ part of their bodies in black, which is a mercy for the poor boy and girl. I'd love to fire that stylist, or at least promote him or her up to somewhere they can't keep screwing up a job they don't seem to care about.

I'm just thankful no crowd yet has shown active hostility, but the level of indifference here is about that of Eight's. Fulvia seems melancholy, almost sad.

With my preliminary observations done, I tap the heads-up display to show me what the screens in the City Circle are showing, and I review the tribute list of names to make sure I know who's who for later.

I lift my glasses briefly to see down the road, and I can just make out the horses for the District One chariot, which means they'll be at the Circle in another five minutes or so. The continuous roar of the crowd is deafening in its intensity. The Circle itself is evenly lit by the high streetlights, and the buildings provide their own illumination as well, as practically every person's room is lit.

Now it's just a matter of time, waiting for all the chariots to come to a halt facing the President's mansion, which means they'll be almost directly below Gamemaker Central.

Finally, the pounding music and the crowd's roaring tapers off as President Snow comes out of his mansion to deliver the usual speech welcoming the tributes to the Capitol and wishing them the best in the Games. All standard stuff, so I don't really pay attention to that. What I _do_ watch for, with new interest now that Seneca has joined my little rebellion, is whether any of the tributes whose faces I see coming up on the screens have ever thought the Capitol was wrong.

Have the District Two tributes, the ones who are the most like us in their naming conventions and outlook on Panem, ever possibly wondered if there is a better way?

Surely the District Eleven and Twelve tributes must wish things were different! But do they have the courage of their convictions? Maybe Haymitch Abernathy does.

Snow has finished his speech, and the national anthem plays. Again the tributes' faces show on the screens, their eyes locked forward, standing rigidly while it plays. I stand still as well, knowing I'm on television.

With the final flourish to the anthem, the crowd gives another roar as the chariots parade once around the Circle, slowly making their way into the Training Center, whose large bay doors have opened onto the street.

As the District Twelve chariot enters the Training Center, I whip my glasses off, hand them to Fulvia and whisper into her ear, "Get that back to an Avox. I've got to take off. Let me know when you've got the montage recap ready for the news nets, okay?"

She nods fervently and says, "Thank you _so _much for letting me stand at the balcony! I've always had to watch the screens inside and it's just not the same."

I smile. "My pleasure."

I lock eyes with Seneca, who beckons me over and whispers into my ear, "Where are you going?"

"District Twelve's mentor is supposed to meet me. Gotta go."

His expression, when we shake hands and bow to each other, is a mix between apprehension and eagerness.

I feel the same way as I make my way out onto the streets of the Capitol.

* * *

Author Notes: Thanks go to **SkyWriter9** for the beta work! :)


	6. Chapter 6

**One Man's Rebellion  
**Chapter 6

Disclaimer: This work of fan-fiction is not intended for personal profit. All characters utilized herein which are not creations of myself belong to Suzanne Collins.

* * *

Haymitch Abernathy is waiting inside Reinhold's Steak House for me. He's dressed well, in a rather conservative outfit by Capitol standards, but he could easily pass for one of the Assistant Gamemakers. I try to see the place through his eyes, to see what a man from District Twelve would see.

The very subdued nature of the restaurant's exterior breathes exclusiveness. It's a little place near the park where I talked to Seneca briefly, about a block north of Gamemaker Central. It's not flashy or glitzy, and your eye easily passes over it when looking for the bright green park, or the prestigious clothing store next door to Reinhold's, which stretches above the restaurant and virtually demands your entrance with a bright silvery exterior and eye-catching fashions in the windows.

Inside, it's cozy and dark. The server robots are a polished black color, and the human maitre d' is wearing a black silk double-breasted suit with white pants. His royal purple tie adds a dash of color. The tables are well-separated from one another, with ample room for privacy shields to be activated at a moment's notice.

I've been here before, though not with Seneca. Dannon and I sometimes eat when we want to catch a quick break after hours of monitoring the Hunger Games.

All this must be a bit daunting, and I can see Abernathy's eyes darting around a bit warily as he stands up to approach me in the entryway. I nod briefly and say, "Hello. Thank you for coming."

He shrugs. "You called, Gamemaker Heavensbee?"

"So I did. Let's get a table first," I reply.

The maitre d' gives us a small double take, but says nothing as he escorts us to one of the tables at the far back, away from the door to the kitchens. Abernathy takes the chair closest to the wall, and I sit perpendicular to him at the square table.

"Wine?" I ask.

Abernathy shrugs dismissively, though if I'm not mistaken he's still a bit nervous. "The best they've got."

As I press the button on the center console of the table to have the wine brought out, I evaluate the other man more closely. His eyes don't seem too bloodshot, and he was walking pretty steadily when we made our way over to the table. He's probably only half-drunk so far.

Deciding to take it slowly and surely for now, I say, "Permit me to reintroduce myself. I'm Plutarch Heavensbee."

I extend my right hand, and Abernathy takes it and gives me a firm handshake. "Haymitch Abernathy. But I guess you knew that, since you sent your assistant with a message saying to meet me here."

Good. He's keen and observant when he wants to be.

He scowls. "Speaking of which, why?"

I shrug diffidently. "Gamemakers can't always get ideas from inside their own heads, now can they? I'm here to pick your brains about arenas."

Haymitch doesn't look too happy. Luckily, before an awkward silence can descend, a server robot wheels smoothly out to us with a wine bottle and two glasses. The expensive white wine's nice and chilled, and I pour out a rather healthy cupful for Haymitch, and a modest amount for me.

Before I can offer the requisite toast, Haymitch has already taken a large gulp out of his glass. Trying not to wince at the _faux pas_, and remembering the Districts are different – not inferior, just different – I half-heartedly raise my glass and say, "Cheers."

I take a small sip of the wine; it's excellent. Just right to go with a good steak.

After I set the glass down, I open the discussion. "In all seriousness, Mr. Abernathy, it's fair to say that you would be involved with the arenas one way or another for a long time to come."

He grunts. Takes another sip. Grudgingly, he mutters, "Until I die, I suppose." He looks at me appraisingly and more loudly, he says, "Can't help you too much, though. I was in only one of your arenas."

"True, but there are always... ideas about the usefulness of our plans for the future." Just a bit loudly, I say, "And of course, Gamemaking is all _quite_ confidential."

I stab the button for the privacy field and take another sip of my wine, willing Haymitch to pick up what I'm trying to get at. He's scowling again, but this time he _does_ seem curious, too.

Guardedly, he says, "Are you here on your own, or is it really Gamemaker business you're after?"

I can't keep the field up for too long or people will start wondering. I lean in, looking Haymitch directly in the eye. "What would you say if I told you that I don't think the Games need to go on forever?"

"_You?_" he scoffs. "There's twenty of you, plus a President. And a whole Capitol. You're shitting me, aren't you?"

"The Head Gamemaker and I see eye to eye on this matter, Haymitch. We _need_ your help," I plead. Damn it, I can't be seen sweating in this restaurant and try not to notice my heart slamming in my chest.

The shimmering figure of the maitre d' is hovering outside the privacy shield, and I sit up straight, raising my finger to my lips. I compose myself and deactivate the shield. Haymitch is hiding his expression behind the glass he's drinking from.

"How is the wine, gentlemen?" he asks solicitously. He usually does this if he wants to remind me to order my food.

We murmur compliments, and the maitre d' says, "You will need to place your order soon. In the meantime, here is some bread as an appetizer."

I notice there's more people in the restaurant, and some are already staring.

He places a bowl of steaming bread on the table, along with several dips; even amidst the tension, I can't wait to have some of it.

Brusquely, I nod and say, "Thank you for letting us know."

"You're welcome. Gamemaker Heavensbee."

As soon as the maitre d' steps away from the table, I stab the button to re-establish the privacy field. I say lightly, "What do you feel like having? I'm going to have a steak, well done."

Haymitch shrugs. "The same."

I quickly punch the order in for two steaks plus the side dishes, then pour us both more wine, Haymitch more than me.

To stall for time, I take some bread, dunk it in the provided spiced beef broth, and enjoy the taste as I chew. I gesture to Haymitch and say, "Try the carrot and tomato dip. It's pretty good."

Actually, it's Dannon's favorite. I tried it once and went back to the beef dip. There's also eggplant bruschetta, balsamic vinegar, what-have-you.

Haymitch tries it out, and he nods as he swallows. "Not bad." He washes it down with more wine, then sets the glass heavily on the table. He sighs gustily, then looks me in the eye and leans towards me. "Okay. I'm in. What now?"

I let out a sigh of relief. "Right now, not much. It's... it's going to be slow. But it's a long haul thing. Can you hold out that long? For an end that's not going to be next year, or the year after, but I promise it will be some day."

"Do I have a choice?" grumbles Haymitch.

"Not much of one. You can leave here and forget I ever said anything... but do you really want to go back to that now that you know a Gamemaker thinks the Games are wrong?"

Haymitch grimaces. "Okay. I get it. I can kind of try to talk to Chaff, you know, from Eleven. Roundabout, if you know what I mean. But don't ask me to stick my neck out any more than that, okay? If they catch you, I don't know you from anyone else. I'll say I drank too fast and don't remember anything."

"I understand." I'm left with nothing else to say. We'd just retread more ground. I deactivate the privacy shield again, hoping the food will be ready soon.

Uncomfortably, I fiddle with the knife and fork as the server robot, laden with our plates, seems to take forever to get to us. I look around the restaurant and see that some of the tables have filled up with happy, laughing people. Several are excitedly looking at me and Haymitch. I'm just hoping we don't spark an autograph frenzy right here.

I try to keep the somber expression off my face as the robot reaches our table. Its mechanical arm sweeps the empty bread basket and dips off the table, and sets the steak dinners in front of each of us.

I immediately begin digging into my dinner. When Haymitch gives me a worried look, I say near his ear, "We need to look like we've finished talking about confidential Gamemaker stuff now. Too much longer and they'll start thinking I'm tipping you off about the upcoming Games."

Haymitch's glare could probably melt ice, but all he does is woodenly begin eating. _Damn it, I __shouldn't have mentioned that_.

The rest of the dinner passes without conversation between us, punctuated only by Haymitch eyeing the televisions flickering to life, showing the chariot ride recaps. Thankfully, this begins to draw attention off us.

Haymitch's eyes shift to the people loudly laughing at District Seven's trees, and being astonished at District One's marvellous beauty. I see a young guy, not much older than the tributes by his appearance, leer at his friend across the table and hold his hands out in front of him. He must be talking about District Four's female. Not hard to guess what he's appreciating.

This can't be easy for Haymitch. The more I'm just _around _this man, the more I realize why our interactions with most Victors are so carefully controlled. Would I quickly become cynical like him, if I had to spend even just a year in his District? If I had to live as they, think as they, be as they?

That way lies a lot of thinking and probably philosophy.

But for tonight, I need to make concrete arrangements. Once we're finished, I let Haymitch have the last of the wine, which he savors with distinct pleasure. The maitre d', having obviously noticed I've signalled for the bus-robot to take the dishes away, comes up to have me cover the bill. I leave a generous tip and thumb the portable authenticator, then request a copy of the receipt.

I'm going to hit up Seneca Crane's authority over the Games budget for this one. My little way of sticking it to the Capitol.

The only sign that Haymitch has had most of a one and a half liter bottle of wine is the slight unsteadiness in his steps as we make our way past the other tables. I quickly say loudly to Haymitch, "Thanks for the excellent ideas for future arenas!" I clap him heartily on the shoulder, eliciting a sour look even as people point and gasp.

Once outside, under cover of the cars rushing by, I say, "The park next door to this restaurant is usually safe. It's only a block from Gamemaker Headquarters, and if you're staying in the Training Center or anywhere near it, you can walk over. Let's meet after the interviews are over. The City Circle will be full of people and we'll look like just two more walking around at night."

Haymitch nods, then quickly begins walking back to the Training Center without even a good-bye.

I heave a sigh and look up at the clear black sky, then begin walking as well. I can't exactly blame him. Even though I'm on his side, he's basically still acting according to someone else's whim.

One day. One day this will be over and nobody will ever have to feel obligated to someone else like that again.

* * *

Author Notes: Thanks go to SkyWriter9 for the beta work, and prodding me to get a chapter out for this fic. :P


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